Slight and shaking thin fingers,
Tenderly brush against my round childish cheek.
They lightly trace the edges of my curved face,
stopping at my bright green eyes, my small ears, and my wide forehead.
My father laughs shyly, tweaking my crooked nose and grinning widely.
He places both hands, warm, comforting, and protective,
to my young new face, ever wondering and watchful.
He pats my wild streaming hair, laughing at my knotted curls and forgotten hairbrush.
His eyes sadden, a dimming light extinguished by a dark fire.
His smile quivers and his hands drop limply into his lap.
He sets his head on his hands, covering his face and sighing loudly.
It has been fifteen years.
Fifteen years he hasn’t seen after that fateful day-
that fateful dark day of Bosnian History.
Many times I wonder when I look at the bright sun and the vivid clouds,
What would he give in this small world,
to glimpse and peer at his surroundings, his home, again?
What would he give in this small world,
to embrace his wife and see her age along with him?
What would he give in this small world,
to see the whirling pools of color,
And pearl ruptures, and pasty grays, and cold yellows?
What would he give in this small world,
to see his children for the first time and give them all a loving kiss,
One


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One?